“Because we have to start somewhere. Tonight’s good for me. Eight o’clock.”

When all that came back at him was tense silence, Jim smiled a little. “Just to help you along, it’s either dinner or I file a workers’-comp action against you that will make your checkbook bleed. Your choice and I’m good with either outcome.”

Vin diPietro had dealt with a lot of SOBs in his lifetime, but this Jim Heron guy was high on the list. It wasn’t the outright threat, necessarily. Or the two hundred pounds on that big frame. Or even all that attitude.

The real trouble was the guy’s eyes: Anytime a stranger looked at you like he knew you better than family, you had to wonder what the angle was. Had he done his research? Did he know where your bodies were buried?

What kind of threat was he to you?

And dinner? The bastard could have squeezed him for cash, but all he wanted was meat and two veg?

Unless the real ask was going to come outside of the hospital.

“Dinner at eight,” Vin said.

“And because I’m a fair guy, I’ll let you pick the place.”

Well, hell, that was easy. If there was going to be trouble, a public peanut gallery was not the kind of condiment Vin was after. “My duplex at the Commodore. You know the building?”

Heron’s eyes went to the window over the bed and then returned. “What floor?”

“Twenty-eighth. I’ll tell the doorman to let you up.”

“See you tonight then.”

Heron turned away, flashing that back of his again.

Vin swallowed another curse as he got a second gander at the black tattoo that covered every inch of skin Heron was showing. Against the vista of a graveyard, the Grim Reaper stared out of that muscled back, a hood shielding its face, its eyes glowing through the shadow created by the robe. One bony hand was locked on its scythe, and the body was leaning forward, its free palm reaching out as if in a moment it was going to snatch your soul. Equally as creepy, there seemed to be a tally at the bottom: Underneath the fringe of the Reaper’s robes, there were two rows of little line marks grouped in fives.

You added that shit up and you got to a hundred pretty damn easy.

The bathroom door shut just as a nurse came rushing in, her crepe-soled shoes squeaking on the floor. “What…where is he?”

“He unplugged himself. I think he’s taking a piss and then leaving.”

“He can’t do that.”

“Good luck changing his mind.”